Press to Restart the Universe (Talking to Walls)
High School Debate harkened me like a corrupt individual to politics. I joined the moment I could, launching my 4-year opinionated journey, briefly interrupted by a half-semester break and a full-semester mentoring-only position while I interned at a middle school my junior year.
Thomas was our coach’s name, working two jobs and being so obviously on the autism spectrum was his game. Though I don’t even remember who joined me as fellow freshman, it certainly wasn’t many, Blake, Caitlyn, and Alexander flash brightly in my memory.
Caitlyn: Senior, short, brunette, got Spotify Premium for three months during a 99 cent promotion deal.
Alexander: Junior, average height, sharp features including his nose, wrote the Capitalist Manifesto to oppose the Communist Manifesto. I didn’t know what manifesto meant at the time.
Blake: Blake, Blake, Blake. Senior, tall, on the volleyball team, blonde, blonde, straight teeth, tall, uses his tongue to catch the remaining Goldfish from his shallow Ziploc bag.
Let the crash course commence.
Lincoln Douglas debate is a style that involves both facts and philosophy, much more nuanced and multi-dimensional compared to Public Forum which is just straight facts, which is just straight boring. Value: The highest thing you want to achieve in your case; Societal Welfare, Truth, Justice. Value Criterion (or as I incorrectly wrote in my notes for the first time, criterium): How you achieve your value and measure it; Reducing Human Suffering, Maximizing Social Equity, Maximizing Contextualization (as Caitlyn joked about doing for a comedic case).
No pro. No con. That rudimentary language is for caveman chumps, not the dark academia, dignified, twill-suited, hardcore debaters like we were. Affirmative. Negative.
The national debate website lists their potential resolutions over the summer and randomly picks them throughout the school year, one topic lasting a little over a month. Gun control. Nuclear power. Free speech. Other tantalizing, titillating, treacherous topics that the expert debater must weave through with concise precision, thinking of counter-arguments on a moment’s notice as you can’t use your phone during the tournaments. You even have to ask the judge to use it as a timer.
My first tournament arrived, a four-round cage match between my fellow righteous orators from surrounding schools. My dad and stepmom had rushed me to Kohl’s as we tried to gather a mishmash of professional clothes to wear as I’d never cared previously to wear a suit. My dad then drove me to school at about 6 am on a Saturday as the tournament was an hour away. I attempted to rest my head against the bumping and vibrating van window, forcing energy into myself.
We arrived and followed the guides to the cafeteria, where hoards of high-schoolers bustled around the tables, performing last minute preparations. I spotted some talking to walls or a tall column, and a teammate informed me that’s what debaters do to rehearse.
That’s not a lie. That’s what they do.
Stomach jitters combined with a lack of breakfast and first-timer anxiety followed me as they posted the first-round list and I walked to the designated classroom.
In such a space, one would expect to find a group of twenty or so students learning algebra, English, or American history. However, that classroom, as all the others for the tournament, contained only the judge—a debate coach or naive parent roped into the gig—my opponent, also a fellow novice-rank, and me.
Let the games begin.
I didn’t know what to say when I finished my speech but I still had more time. Just standing there, though quite confidently I will add, I just stared at the wall and waited until my phone bleeped.
After the round, my teammates told me to end my speech with either “Vote Aff” or “Vote Neg" instead of just doing nothing. I must have gone 2-2 that tournament, as I usually did no matter how much I improved. That was still pretty good given how Thomas had just handed me a case a few days before since we hadn’t had enough time to write one for me at my level.
Freshman year continued with more learning, tournaments, and anxiety. Though for one national-qualifier, I got to spectate Caitlyn and Blake for their rounds. Caitlyn went up against a guy who spoke so fast that he gulped in breaths like someone trying to drown himself but broke the waterline at the last second with an unquenchable thirst for life. His case had something to do with pirates. Blake’s opponent spoke normally, but had the most abnormal case about Blake needing to lose so he could become a martyr and raise awareness about the topic. They then commenced conversations about Batman or some other superhero and Blake argued he could post about the topic on Facebook, which he then did right after the round ended after asking for permission from the judge.
Then they graduated. The timer reset.
My dad, without hesitation, paid two-thousand dollars for me to attend the two-week debate camp at Loyola Chicago that summer. The campus was pretty and popping with bunnies but the dorms sucked, my bed being right next to my roommate's and the bathrooms in the hallways. Whether I learned a lot or not, I can’t say. They tell you that being plunged into a foreign country is how to best learn a new language, but skill is too different from knowledge. I befriended Serena with whom I developed a fast bond, but never asked to stay in touch. I knew the fake Spirit Points, debate crash-courses, and team building activities wouldn’t make it past the end of camp. After my dad picked me up on those large steps, we bought a pair of blue Vans for me. When I got home, I jerked off three times.
Sophomore year, Sumo joined the team as an associate coach, an ironic nickname seeing as how he was a thin Indian guy instead of an extra-large Japanese man. One day, Thomas discussed their codes of honor with me, Sumo’s being focused on hedonism and Thomas’ being more structured and intricate. “If Sumo wanted to eat caramels all day, and that didn’t hurt anyone or him,” Thomas told me in the computer lab, “then that’s what he would do.” I tried to imagine Thomas in a suit of armor, but his slight potbelly wouldn’t fit the image.
Over the semester, the almighty Debate Gods chose a topic centering around free speech, a resolution I had come to despise. “I affirm the resolution resolved, free speech is good and we don’t need to discuss it because the Supreme Court has already set limits on it. The end.”
During my waning motivation, I came across the most curious word while watching an episode of “Charmed.” I then emailed Thomas, informing him I would be taking a sabaticle until the Gods declared the next topic. When I returned to debate, Thomas informed me, his face stoic but buzzing like bees were bulging underneath, that (1) I had spelled sabbatical incorrectly and (2) I was to not do that again. Ever.
There was a topic about nuclear power that I crushed one round when I argued that my debate world could use both nuclear and thermal even though my opponent tried to make it seem that thermal only existed in his case. We used an illegal tactic during a qualified immunity resolution because there is no good, arguable reason that should exist for the police, which cost me several rounds. Then I lost to a guy who had three minutes left in his speech and when the judge asked him if he wanted to continue, he declined. I weaved through the judge’s notes on the bus, trying to find any rational reason for this. At least the boy had complimented me on my Doc Martens.
Thomas also threw me into JV one tournament, where I was baffled by the Observation tactic that no one had introduced me to prior. It’s just making a point at the beginning of your case. That’s it. Then I got randomly matched with the previous tournament’s winner who, although he first read the wrong case then immediately switched, annihilated every part of me.
That year I dived deeper into the philosophy of it all. Utilitarianism is the easiest framework to run, the greatest good for the greatest amount of people. Who wouldn’t want that? Immanuel Kant, that’s who. Deontology states that the means do not always justify the ends. Then there was Rawls’ Veil of Ignorance, a thought experiment that blows the stupid-baseless-unnuanced-pathetic-basic-stupid-basic-pointless Trolley Problem out of the shark-infested waters. Imagine you’re a being creating a world, but you don’t get to decide your gender, race, sexuality, anything. Would you still make a world filled with any kind of hatred? Of course not. Case closed.
I’ve never had a mentor or viewed anyone as a role model, but Thomas came quite close. He talked with me one day about his weight, his job at UPS, and not having a lot of personal time. I also confided in him about feeling strange, like I had a dark side, as all teenagers wonder about. When I was waiting for my dad to pick me up after one tournament, with Sumo there as well, we all talked about ninja-pirate hybrids and I thought of ninja-star-dubloons as a potential weapon, which filled them with enthusiasm.
While Sumo and Thomas exchanged a recipe for mac and cheese one day, Alexander showed me something on the computer lab Mac. The term for the concept escapes me, but the image rings clear: a black and white photo of a traffic light, but on top of the crosswalk button lies a sign stating, “Press to Restart the Universe.”
“Hell yeah!” I exclaimed.
Then Alexander graduated.
Thomas had to pick his UPS job full time as it paid a lot more than being the coach of a measly high school debate team.
That left me and two others for the next year. Suddenly a do-over didn’t seem as exciting.
Ben was so gay that I’m surprised he felt confident in being in the closet until our senior year. He was smarter than me which I always took personally, but I was able to win one practice round against him. Just one.
Feyza was a grade below us. This girl, this diva, this shining light in the dim world of pulled curtains, was not at all like the sun. Her classic Feyza Face which always made us laugh consisted of her looking depressed, constipated, and pessimistic all at the same time. More than a scowl, more than a frown, more than a grimace, it was Feyza through and through. One day, she found an old binder full of random philosophical takes and gained a fascinating interest in existential nihilism.
My junior year consisted of us scrambling to find a coach. We talked to the school administration and waited, waited, waited, until finally Ben’s math teacher answered the call. Mrs. Something knew nothing about debate, but had energy and license to supervise us. She enlisted Miguel, one of Thomas’ friends, to serve as a consultant.
Over the next weeks, she enlisted a new crew of debate kids and began prepwork for Public Forum, as that was the easiest style for newbies to learn and was also two-versus-two instead of the more pressure-cooker one-on-one.
The freshmen were for the most part fun, and one kid, Evan, was quite interested in the craft. Since I’d adopted a more educational role that semester, I taught him all that I knew, lecturing in the computer lab and even setting one of my legs on a chair whilst standing, such as how all cool teachers do. When it came time for his first tournament, I spectated his first round, walking flavorfully to the classroom in my toned-down and relaxed button-up shirt, no suit jacket required.
Evan floundered like a salmon that didn’t get the move-upstream gene. He conceded the debate after his opponent’s first rebuttal, hanging his head down and stating that his case was too good. The opponent tried to keep it going out of pity, telling Evan to just re-read his case to fill time, but it was clearly over.
As we walked back to the cafeteria, he started panicking and tearing-up, stating that there was an emergency that his parents had to pick him up for. Mrs. Something immediately withdrew him from the tournament. She also adjusted the misaligned buttons on my shirt. “Sorry, I’m a mom,” she said, then mentioned that I had some of the best facial skin she’d ever seen.
Evan left the building but still stuck around at debate for a while. He apologized to me for lying about there being an emergency, but to his defense, a panic attack is an emergency. If I could press the button, I’d have told him he wasn’t ready yet for the big leagues of novice Lincoln Douglas debate.
Mrs. Something, who according to Ben wasn’t the best math teacher, although very nice, was not asked to return as a school employee my senior year. That left me, Ben, Feyza, a few other debaters, and Miguel. Not even Nietzsche could save us.
Still finding time for debate even though I’d joined the school newspaper that year, Ben and I reigned as the eldest in the club. Though we should have been competing as varsity for the whole year, people like to do what’s easiest.
For one tournament, we stuck to JV. Ben won first place overall and second speaker—a separate ranking for how good you are at articulating your arguments. I won second overall and first speaker, a clean sweep for Ben [REDACTED] and Ryder From of [REDACTED] High School.
The State tournament arrived in March. I’d competed the year prior, but didn’t make it past the first phase. More hopeful this year, I still didn’t make it past the first phase. Ben did, but lost hard to his next opponent with a much better case about needle exchange and very well-fitting, slightly-flared pants. On both days we adjourned to the college cafeteria for lunch, I ordered the vegan spicy chicken sandwich. On the second day, I witnessed the cook remove the patty from a Morningstar Farms pack. Not even restaurant grade packaged goods? Come on!
Ben and I were in the same hotel room along with two others, Sonny and Not-Jacob, the younger brother of real Jacob who he looked very similar to but was much kinder. He was a baseball boy and talked about his abs.
“I have abs,” I said, pointing out how unimpressive it is. I squeezed my stomach but there they weren’t. Huh, I thought. Guess it’s been a while since I looked.
Not-Jacob squeezed his and revealed the muscles. Ben then switched spots with Sonny so he could spoon with Not-Jacob, an action that was mainly a joke but one I was still jealous of. Ben had plenty of sexual experiences, having shown me a photo of his sexual partner with cum shots along that tan, toned stomach.
But Ben and I agreed over the following summer that if it had been just him and I in the hotel room, we would have kissed.
Miguel was a weirdo, talking about how he could have accepted a high-paying job from Chase Bank but chose to stick with coaching us. He offered Ben and I a one-thousand dollar scholarship that he sent personally due to red tape from the school. Ben declined, thinking it strange, but I happily accepted.
Two-hundred for the rounds I unfairly lost.
One-hundred for being a failed mentor.
One-hundred for being a student-judge at one tournament but wasn’t allowed to eat the adult-lunch.
Four-hundred for the trophies I won and tossed after graduation.
Two-hundred for attending debate camp once and only once.
And a priceless amount for not pressing the button.
Thomas was our coach’s name, working two jobs and being so obviously on the autism spectrum was his game. Though I don’t even remember who joined me as fellow freshman, it certainly wasn’t many, Blake, Caitlyn, and Alexander flash brightly in my memory.
Caitlyn: Senior, short, brunette, got Spotify Premium for three months during a 99 cent promotion deal.
Alexander: Junior, average height, sharp features including his nose, wrote the Capitalist Manifesto to oppose the Communist Manifesto. I didn’t know what manifesto meant at the time.
Blake: Blake, Blake, Blake. Senior, tall, on the volleyball team, blonde, blonde, straight teeth, tall, uses his tongue to catch the remaining Goldfish from his shallow Ziploc bag.
Let the crash course commence.
Lincoln Douglas debate is a style that involves both facts and philosophy, much more nuanced and multi-dimensional compared to Public Forum which is just straight facts, which is just straight boring. Value: The highest thing you want to achieve in your case; Societal Welfare, Truth, Justice. Value Criterion (or as I incorrectly wrote in my notes for the first time, criterium): How you achieve your value and measure it; Reducing Human Suffering, Maximizing Social Equity, Maximizing Contextualization (as Caitlyn joked about doing for a comedic case).
No pro. No con. That rudimentary language is for caveman chumps, not the dark academia, dignified, twill-suited, hardcore debaters like we were. Affirmative. Negative.
The national debate website lists their potential resolutions over the summer and randomly picks them throughout the school year, one topic lasting a little over a month. Gun control. Nuclear power. Free speech. Other tantalizing, titillating, treacherous topics that the expert debater must weave through with concise precision, thinking of counter-arguments on a moment’s notice as you can’t use your phone during the tournaments. You even have to ask the judge to use it as a timer.
My first tournament arrived, a four-round cage match between my fellow righteous orators from surrounding schools. My dad and stepmom had rushed me to Kohl’s as we tried to gather a mishmash of professional clothes to wear as I’d never cared previously to wear a suit. My dad then drove me to school at about 6 am on a Saturday as the tournament was an hour away. I attempted to rest my head against the bumping and vibrating van window, forcing energy into myself.
We arrived and followed the guides to the cafeteria, where hoards of high-schoolers bustled around the tables, performing last minute preparations. I spotted some talking to walls or a tall column, and a teammate informed me that’s what debaters do to rehearse.
That’s not a lie. That’s what they do.
Stomach jitters combined with a lack of breakfast and first-timer anxiety followed me as they posted the first-round list and I walked to the designated classroom.
In such a space, one would expect to find a group of twenty or so students learning algebra, English, or American history. However, that classroom, as all the others for the tournament, contained only the judge—a debate coach or naive parent roped into the gig—my opponent, also a fellow novice-rank, and me.
Let the games begin.
I didn’t know what to say when I finished my speech but I still had more time. Just standing there, though quite confidently I will add, I just stared at the wall and waited until my phone bleeped.
After the round, my teammates told me to end my speech with either “Vote Aff” or “Vote Neg" instead of just doing nothing. I must have gone 2-2 that tournament, as I usually did no matter how much I improved. That was still pretty good given how Thomas had just handed me a case a few days before since we hadn’t had enough time to write one for me at my level.
Freshman year continued with more learning, tournaments, and anxiety. Though for one national-qualifier, I got to spectate Caitlyn and Blake for their rounds. Caitlyn went up against a guy who spoke so fast that he gulped in breaths like someone trying to drown himself but broke the waterline at the last second with an unquenchable thirst for life. His case had something to do with pirates. Blake’s opponent spoke normally, but had the most abnormal case about Blake needing to lose so he could become a martyr and raise awareness about the topic. They then commenced conversations about Batman or some other superhero and Blake argued he could post about the topic on Facebook, which he then did right after the round ended after asking for permission from the judge.
Then they graduated. The timer reset.
My dad, without hesitation, paid two-thousand dollars for me to attend the two-week debate camp at Loyola Chicago that summer. The campus was pretty and popping with bunnies but the dorms sucked, my bed being right next to my roommate's and the bathrooms in the hallways. Whether I learned a lot or not, I can’t say. They tell you that being plunged into a foreign country is how to best learn a new language, but skill is too different from knowledge. I befriended Serena with whom I developed a fast bond, but never asked to stay in touch. I knew the fake Spirit Points, debate crash-courses, and team building activities wouldn’t make it past the end of camp. After my dad picked me up on those large steps, we bought a pair of blue Vans for me. When I got home, I jerked off three times.
Sophomore year, Sumo joined the team as an associate coach, an ironic nickname seeing as how he was a thin Indian guy instead of an extra-large Japanese man. One day, Thomas discussed their codes of honor with me, Sumo’s being focused on hedonism and Thomas’ being more structured and intricate. “If Sumo wanted to eat caramels all day, and that didn’t hurt anyone or him,” Thomas told me in the computer lab, “then that’s what he would do.” I tried to imagine Thomas in a suit of armor, but his slight potbelly wouldn’t fit the image.
Over the semester, the almighty Debate Gods chose a topic centering around free speech, a resolution I had come to despise. “I affirm the resolution resolved, free speech is good and we don’t need to discuss it because the Supreme Court has already set limits on it. The end.”
During my waning motivation, I came across the most curious word while watching an episode of “Charmed.” I then emailed Thomas, informing him I would be taking a sabaticle until the Gods declared the next topic. When I returned to debate, Thomas informed me, his face stoic but buzzing like bees were bulging underneath, that (1) I had spelled sabbatical incorrectly and (2) I was to not do that again. Ever.
There was a topic about nuclear power that I crushed one round when I argued that my debate world could use both nuclear and thermal even though my opponent tried to make it seem that thermal only existed in his case. We used an illegal tactic during a qualified immunity resolution because there is no good, arguable reason that should exist for the police, which cost me several rounds. Then I lost to a guy who had three minutes left in his speech and when the judge asked him if he wanted to continue, he declined. I weaved through the judge’s notes on the bus, trying to find any rational reason for this. At least the boy had complimented me on my Doc Martens.
Thomas also threw me into JV one tournament, where I was baffled by the Observation tactic that no one had introduced me to prior. It’s just making a point at the beginning of your case. That’s it. Then I got randomly matched with the previous tournament’s winner who, although he first read the wrong case then immediately switched, annihilated every part of me.
That year I dived deeper into the philosophy of it all. Utilitarianism is the easiest framework to run, the greatest good for the greatest amount of people. Who wouldn’t want that? Immanuel Kant, that’s who. Deontology states that the means do not always justify the ends. Then there was Rawls’ Veil of Ignorance, a thought experiment that blows the stupid-baseless-unnuanced-pathetic-basic-stupid-basic-pointless Trolley Problem out of the shark-infested waters. Imagine you’re a being creating a world, but you don’t get to decide your gender, race, sexuality, anything. Would you still make a world filled with any kind of hatred? Of course not. Case closed.
I’ve never had a mentor or viewed anyone as a role model, but Thomas came quite close. He talked with me one day about his weight, his job at UPS, and not having a lot of personal time. I also confided in him about feeling strange, like I had a dark side, as all teenagers wonder about. When I was waiting for my dad to pick me up after one tournament, with Sumo there as well, we all talked about ninja-pirate hybrids and I thought of ninja-star-dubloons as a potential weapon, which filled them with enthusiasm.
While Sumo and Thomas exchanged a recipe for mac and cheese one day, Alexander showed me something on the computer lab Mac. The term for the concept escapes me, but the image rings clear: a black and white photo of a traffic light, but on top of the crosswalk button lies a sign stating, “Press to Restart the Universe.”
“Hell yeah!” I exclaimed.
Then Alexander graduated.
Thomas had to pick his UPS job full time as it paid a lot more than being the coach of a measly high school debate team.
That left me and two others for the next year. Suddenly a do-over didn’t seem as exciting.
Ben was so gay that I’m surprised he felt confident in being in the closet until our senior year. He was smarter than me which I always took personally, but I was able to win one practice round against him. Just one.
Feyza was a grade below us. This girl, this diva, this shining light in the dim world of pulled curtains, was not at all like the sun. Her classic Feyza Face which always made us laugh consisted of her looking depressed, constipated, and pessimistic all at the same time. More than a scowl, more than a frown, more than a grimace, it was Feyza through and through. One day, she found an old binder full of random philosophical takes and gained a fascinating interest in existential nihilism.
My junior year consisted of us scrambling to find a coach. We talked to the school administration and waited, waited, waited, until finally Ben’s math teacher answered the call. Mrs. Something knew nothing about debate, but had energy and license to supervise us. She enlisted Miguel, one of Thomas’ friends, to serve as a consultant.
Over the next weeks, she enlisted a new crew of debate kids and began prepwork for Public Forum, as that was the easiest style for newbies to learn and was also two-versus-two instead of the more pressure-cooker one-on-one.
The freshmen were for the most part fun, and one kid, Evan, was quite interested in the craft. Since I’d adopted a more educational role that semester, I taught him all that I knew, lecturing in the computer lab and even setting one of my legs on a chair whilst standing, such as how all cool teachers do. When it came time for his first tournament, I spectated his first round, walking flavorfully to the classroom in my toned-down and relaxed button-up shirt, no suit jacket required.
Evan floundered like a salmon that didn’t get the move-upstream gene. He conceded the debate after his opponent’s first rebuttal, hanging his head down and stating that his case was too good. The opponent tried to keep it going out of pity, telling Evan to just re-read his case to fill time, but it was clearly over.
As we walked back to the cafeteria, he started panicking and tearing-up, stating that there was an emergency that his parents had to pick him up for. Mrs. Something immediately withdrew him from the tournament. She also adjusted the misaligned buttons on my shirt. “Sorry, I’m a mom,” she said, then mentioned that I had some of the best facial skin she’d ever seen.
Evan left the building but still stuck around at debate for a while. He apologized to me for lying about there being an emergency, but to his defense, a panic attack is an emergency. If I could press the button, I’d have told him he wasn’t ready yet for the big leagues of novice Lincoln Douglas debate.
Mrs. Something, who according to Ben wasn’t the best math teacher, although very nice, was not asked to return as a school employee my senior year. That left me, Ben, Feyza, a few other debaters, and Miguel. Not even Nietzsche could save us.
Still finding time for debate even though I’d joined the school newspaper that year, Ben and I reigned as the eldest in the club. Though we should have been competing as varsity for the whole year, people like to do what’s easiest.
For one tournament, we stuck to JV. Ben won first place overall and second speaker—a separate ranking for how good you are at articulating your arguments. I won second overall and first speaker, a clean sweep for Ben [REDACTED] and Ryder From of [REDACTED] High School.
The State tournament arrived in March. I’d competed the year prior, but didn’t make it past the first phase. More hopeful this year, I still didn’t make it past the first phase. Ben did, but lost hard to his next opponent with a much better case about needle exchange and very well-fitting, slightly-flared pants. On both days we adjourned to the college cafeteria for lunch, I ordered the vegan spicy chicken sandwich. On the second day, I witnessed the cook remove the patty from a Morningstar Farms pack. Not even restaurant grade packaged goods? Come on!
Ben and I were in the same hotel room along with two others, Sonny and Not-Jacob, the younger brother of real Jacob who he looked very similar to but was much kinder. He was a baseball boy and talked about his abs.
“I have abs,” I said, pointing out how unimpressive it is. I squeezed my stomach but there they weren’t. Huh, I thought. Guess it’s been a while since I looked.
Not-Jacob squeezed his and revealed the muscles. Ben then switched spots with Sonny so he could spoon with Not-Jacob, an action that was mainly a joke but one I was still jealous of. Ben had plenty of sexual experiences, having shown me a photo of his sexual partner with cum shots along that tan, toned stomach.
But Ben and I agreed over the following summer that if it had been just him and I in the hotel room, we would have kissed.
Miguel was a weirdo, talking about how he could have accepted a high-paying job from Chase Bank but chose to stick with coaching us. He offered Ben and I a one-thousand dollar scholarship that he sent personally due to red tape from the school. Ben declined, thinking it strange, but I happily accepted.
Two-hundred for the rounds I unfairly lost.
One-hundred for being a failed mentor.
One-hundred for being a student-judge at one tournament but wasn’t allowed to eat the adult-lunch.
Four-hundred for the trophies I won and tossed after graduation.
Two-hundred for attending debate camp once and only once.
And a priceless amount for not pressing the button.
Comments
Post a Comment